


dealing with it

by preromantics



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Adam tips his head back down to the pillow and lets out a low noise. His hair is plastered down on this forehead, wet from a shower, and it's stained the pillowcases a darker shade. "I thought you could fuck me," Adam says, while Kris watches the slowly increasing movement of Adam's fingers, the obvious press and curl of them. Kris' own fingers flex by his side, once, twice, waiting.</i> (Kris' rare experiences topping Adam.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	dealing with it

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 9/05/2010.

The first time is on tour, on one of the precious nights they get to crash in a hotel room. Kris heads out to the ice machine at the end of the hall and comes back with a bucket full of ice to drop in the bathroom and to Adam on his bed. 

Not just on his bed, really. That would imply something like sleeping, maybe, or lounging in the way Adam lounges on beds and chairs, legs relaxed and out, neck back, the way that makes Kris hyper-aware of their surroundings and of the skin of Adam's lips. 

Lounging and sleeping: those are things Kris can deal with. Adam, though, is on Kris' bed, legs spread out long and pale and bent at the knee, shirt rucked up right under his nipples -- Kris can just barely see the contrasting skin. He has two fingers inside himself, too, pressing in and barely moving, curled at the knuckle like how Adam keeps his fingers inside Kris sometimes after they've both come, just keeping him stretched, full. And that -- that is not something Kris can immediately deal with.

"Adam," Kris manages, eyes jumping from one part of him to the next. Fingers, lips, the beads of sweat gathered in the crooks of his knees. 

Adam leans up on an elbow, smiles lazily and slow, predatory in a different sort of way than Kris is used to. "Hey," Adam says, casually, "you took a really long time getting ice."

Kris stopped to talk to Anoop when he peered out from his own hotel door, but that's -- that's a completely different world away from anytime Kris and Adam can get the privacy of a room (or a closet, or a bathroom, or a bunk) together. From now. "You're --" Kris starts, trying to move along the conversation but utterly failing, throwing out a vague arm to Adam's position on the bed instead. 

Adam tips his head back down to the pillow and lets out a low noise. His hair is plastered down on this forehead, wet from a shower, and it's stained the pillowcases a darker shade. "I thought you could fuck me," Adam says, while Kris watches the slowly increasing movement of Adam's fingers, the obvious press and curl of them. Kris' own fingers flex by his side, once, twice, waiting. 

They don't talk about them, this, it. Kris thinks about it all the time: when he shifts on a backstage couch, the denim of his jeans pressing against bruises low on his hipbones in the shape of Adam's fingertips, when Adam applies his make-up carefully and precisely in a near-by mirror, completely focused, when he lets go on stage -- down on his knees and all Kris can think about is the first time Adam had fallen to his knees for him, just him, not an audience, and --

"Kris," Adam says, back up on an elbow, "I'm going to fall asleep on you, come here." He does sound tired, too, the exhaustion in Kris' bones all caught up in Adam's voice. 

The first time, it's slow: Kris feels out of his depth, just a little, his own ass aching for Adam's fingers, for his tongue and his cock. When he presses into Adam, they both groan, and it's good, it's great, it's something Kris hadn't been thinking about correctly at all, his own fist wrapped around his dick in hurried showers, imagining this, fucking Adam, giving back as good as he'd been getting. 

Adam hangs on to Kris' hips, pulls him forward and pushes closer with his heels dug into the mattress on each side of Kris' thighs. It's slow, for them -- but they have the time, and Adam's head dips back onto the mattress, mouth open around a grin, eyes dark and slitted narrow with pleasure. It's a good look on him, and Kris traces the arch and bow of Adam's lips with two of his fingers while he fucks in, letting Adam decide the pace, slow and grinding, keeping Kris on edge, clenching tight around him.

It makes Kris feel more tired, his body strung out. It's almost -- he doesn't stop to think about it until after, not with Adam under him, not with the sweat dripping prickly and slow down his spine -- too close, more intimate than anything they've done. Three weeks left on tour, weeks of hurried, rushed, yes,  _Adam_ , behind them already, and this -- this is different. 

Adam comes with Kris' hand pressed between them and wrapped around his cock, jerking Adam off tight, watching him bend up against his orgasm, leaning all the way to catch the noises out of Kris' mouth, heady and surprised when he comes inside Adam, rolling with the grip and shock of it. 

"That was -- you were good, Kris," Adam says, later, spread out eagle style on the mattress with Kris against his side. "I needed that." 

He says it like it's an explanation, and Kris doesn't ask for more, but his skin is humming with it, humming bright hot where he's pressed against Adam, ankle to hip to shoulder. "Thanks," Kris says, although he isn't sure if it's for the compliment or for the act. 

Adam kisses the side of Kris' forehead, drags his lips down. Kris drags the sheets up over both of them. Usually when they have time like this, a hotel and hours of nighttime stretched out before them, they take their time. Adam doesn't let him sleep, relentless with his hands and mouth and Kris always gives back as much as he can take, tries to, anyway, when his brain is on board with it. 

"I'm going to pass out on you, fuck," Adam says, low on a laugh against Kris' head. Kris doesn't mean to fall asleep as fast as he does -- his body feels well fucked, a feeling he's only started getting used to, but it's in a different way this time -- but the pillowcase is soft instead scratchy against his cheek and Adam's fingers are pressed against the indents of his ribs, and -- he sleeps, gratefully. They have the morning, the little bit of time before press and soundcheck and the show, and they'll have all the time they can squeeze in, enough that Kris will feel Adam's hands on him for the rest of the day and wonder if everyone looking at him on stage can see his handprints, like a well-traveled map along his skin.

-

As it is, Adam wakes him up with a blowjob, slipping from slow and morning-warm, lips soft and sucking along Kris' dick, to hard and deep, jolting Kris into awareness. 

Adam is rough with him, and Kris meets his thrusts and hands and teeth and tongue willingly, laughing into Adam's shoulder blade when they trip up on the way to the shower. All traces of the tired, pliant Adam from the night before are washed away by the time Kris' foot is propped up on the tile soap dish set into the shower wall, Adam on his knees and rimming him from behind.

They're going to be late, someone is going to go banging on their respective doors and they'll have to explain it away, again. With the way Kris can feel his orgasm all over though, sparking down his spine and to his toes and his face pressed up against the cool tile on the wall, well -- it's worth it.

-

They don't talk about it, but the second time, Adam is drunk. It's the third to last night of the tour, another hotel night, the last they'll get before they have to separate (not for long, Adam promises, and Kris takes any promises he can get -- and it's true, anyway, it won't be long. The future though, that's -- Kris doesn't think about it.)

Kris showers to get the sweat off his skin, the heat that feels like it's permanently trapped inside the clothes he wears on stage every night.

Adam's on his bed when he gets out, and it's almost the same as the first night: his legs over the bed, bent at the knees, his own fingers inside: this time he isn't slow, though, Kris' name falling out on breaths while Adam fucks himself down on three fingers.

Kris wishes he had the state of mind to ask why, to know why, but he doesn't second guess anything. He drops his towel and when he crawls on the mattress, this time Adam says, "Fuck, Kris, please," like he's already gone. Kris knows Adam loves to work the pleases, the whine in Kris' voice out of him. It's different to hear the desperation out of Adam, it sparks something up inside him, and Kris wraps his hand around his own cock for a few strokes before settling in between Adam's legs. 

Adam spreads wider, leans up on his elbows and then against the headboard, and Kris groans, can't help it. He slips a finger inside Adam, moving in tandem with Adam's own, letting him rock down. 

This time Kris doesn't let Adam set the pace once he's inside, and Adam isn't quiet, isn't reserved at all. He meets Kris' thrusts and pulls him down for more, and Kris grabs the headboard for more momentum, giving Adam what he can, wanting and needing the noises, the loss of composure spilling out from Adam's throat like his wild notes on stage -- wanting them and needing them but not understanding why, why it feels so important that he knows.

Adam comes, back arching up and going taut, his hands coming up to pull Kris down by his neck, just resting their foreheads together and pressing up to drag his lips and teeth over Kris' parted mouth while they both shake, just a little. 

-

The third time doesn't come for almost a year after: Kris goes to one of Adam's shows, gets there halfway through the set and chills to the lower side of the stage when one of the security guards recognizes him.

He didn't tell Adam that he'd be there, although he said he'd try and make it -- they kept up, but it wasn't the same as before. 

(Sometimes Kris ached. The few people he'd -- he'd tried others, let a techie fuck him, let himself be spread out over a recording studio soundboard, the lines and half-moon shaped marks of the dials red against his skin for hours afterwards. It hadn't been the same.)

He finds Adam backstage, though, hands awkward and loose at his sides until Adam wraps around him, wild and everywhere and once: his smell, the familiar lines of his body, the post-stage thrum all over his skin, pressed against him for longer than they should be in the crowd of band and crew. 

It takes a while to get alone, hours, and Kris is only barely expecting it when Adam shoves him up against the door of Kris' quickly-rented hotel room a few blocks from the venue. 

It feels like being taken: Adam's hands trailing too fast over Kris' skin, his mouth following, like he needs to be everywhere at once, pressed up against him and then bent away to look, to take it all in.

Kris understands the feeling, the desperation of months apart, of different relationships and fucks and Kris trying to find his own footing everywhere he stepped. His body responds but his brain doesn't, too mixed up: relief that Adam still wants him, could still want this -- whatever is between them, even after all the time spent apart, the reluctant hate that they don't actually get to do this, that it's always rushed and about taking and marking, and the nagging part of Kris' brain that is always waiting for Adam to change, to spread himself out and wait for Kris, like maybe Kris will be able to figure out a pattern or what it's about. 

Adam bites down on his collarbone and Kris twists, hips thrusting up into the dry hand Adam has wrapped around his cock, shoved down his jeans, tight and strained. 

"Adam," he says, and repeats it, because in the white silent noise of the room it's the only word that makes sense between the two of them. Kris wants -- in these situation he always wants, no matter what he gets, but now, especially, after seeing Adam on stage, seeing hands reaching up from the crowd at him, touching him, Adam touching -- Kris wants more than he's getting.

He twists under Adam, settling low and pushing until he gets the leverage to back Adam up against the opposite wall, leaning up to drag his own teeth down the skin behind Adam's ear, down his jaw and throat. Adam leans into it, laughs low and trails his hands back down Kris' bare sides, down to his hips. 

"What?" Adam asks, almost amused, and for a second it throws Kris off-guard, like maybe Adam knows what Kris wants better than he knows himself. 

(Kris wants everything, really, but this -- this is a singular want, a need to understand and explore and take in the way Adam always takes from him, in the way that never feels like stealing but like giving.)

Kris pulls Adam away from the wall, turns and peels off his pants and helps Adam shuck his own before hitting the bed, rolling away when Adam tries to press him down and using the momentary confusion on Adam's part to roll on top of him, pinning Adam's wrists above his head with his hands. 

"Miss you," Adam says, looking up at him, a wide grin twisting his lips up, eyes smeared with stage make-up and lips flushed slick and dark red. Kris feels -- hungry. He feels his expression mirrored in Adam's own, the want he can't seem to get off his face when he even gets a chance to  _look_  at Adam these days, much less the intensified version now, where he can actually show Adam what he does to him. 

This time, Kris doesn't let Adam decide. He kisses Adam, rough and hard and sloppy, like he's trying to explain everything at once, and he settles down between Adam's legs, pressing at Adam's inner thighs to spread them out. He leans on a whim, down to the spread of Adam's ass and he licks, dragging with the flat of his tongue, something he'd only had the chance to do twice before, and briefly, like afterthoughts to a blow job.

Adam doesn't make the noises Kris wants, the ones he remembers, so Kris works at him, tongue, fingers, tongue -- until Adam starts rocking back to meet his fingers in ernest, mouth parted around high sounds. Kris doesn't know what he's waiting for, specifically, but he knows when it happens: Adam's noises slow but grow louder, three of Kris' fingers twisting inside him, fascinated with the clench and and pull around them, different from when he fingers his own ass. 

Adam groans around his words, asking,  _please_ , and he's not even drunk, body tight from Kris' attention, and Kris obliges -- still not getting this part of Adam, not in the way he wants to, but understanding more, pressing up inside him, barely a handful of thrusts away from coming himself. (Kris had been so focused, so involved, he'd barely noticed his own cock, just pressed down in slow, dragging motions against the sheets between Adam's open thighs.)

-

After, they don't sleep. They have the entire night, and Kris thinks -- talks out loud, nonsensical and drained -- about coming to more tour stops. About going somewhere, maybe, when they both have free time, whenever. Getting away and just -- doing all the things Kris can't articulate. 

Kris's body is too relaxed into the mattress to push Adam away (not that he could, really, ever,) when he rolls over top of him an hour later. Kris wasn't even sure if he'd stopped talking out loud, body strung out, but he blinks up at the wide, predatory smile and narrowed eyes on Adam's face, hovering right over his own. 

"I'm going to pay you back," Adam says, somewhat conversationally. 

Kris doesn't know where he gets the energy: Adam spreads him out slowly, gentle when he positions Kris' legs, flips him over on his stomach and drags his tongue down Kris' spine to his ass, rimming him open. Kris' body is loose from coming earlier, muscles sore from pulling and pressing into Adam, but Adam makes his whole body feel tight and on edge again. 

Kris thinks about telling Adam, sometime later, with Adam inside him, filling him in a way that Kris forgot he could be filled: a way he only feels with Adam, with Adam draped along his back, seated heavy inside, Kris stretched around him, how he can't be paying Kris back if Kris actually wants it. He does want it, too, body alive and awake again despite the hour, meeting Adam's thrusts with low noises, his forehead pressed into the pillow below. Adam's fingers dig into his hips, and Kris presses up, arches his back and groans when Adam presses harder everywhere, knowing: inside, all over Kris' skin, the soft ache of bruises blooming slow on his sides. 

Adam jerks him off, reaching around his stomach with a warm arm, draped almost entirely over Kris' back, noises hot and wet against the back of Kris' neck. Kris comes and bites into the cotton of the pillow case, not trusting himself with whatever sounds build in his throat, and Adam keeps fucking him, shaking with it along Kris' back until the comes again, too, rolling them over in near-slow motion, Kris' mind blissfully blank.

"It's --" Adam starts, sometime later, the lights off and Kris' forehead resting against the cooling skin of Adam's shoulder. "Sometimes I just want you in every way," he says, like he's picking up a conversation Kris can't remember. "Just to know I can."

Kris tries to respond, maybe, but he gets out a few vowel sounds against Adam's skin and gives up. He gets it, though, an afterthought bouncing around his head, warm all over and burning where Adam's skin touches his, but not in an unpleasant way at all, and he falls asleep easy and relaxed. They'll have a little bit of the morning, like they always do, anyway.


End file.
